Happy Birthday, Robert Burns!

The Robert Burns impersonator was quite popular at the Golden Spurtle. Here we got him to pose with our Steel Cut Oats and World Champion, Matt Cox.

Today marks the birth of Robert Burns, the renowned Scottish poet known as the Son of Scotland. Robert Burns wrote such epic poems as A Red, Red Rose; Tam o’Shanter; and Auld Lang Syne. From what I have gathered, Burns is remembered for his odes and tributes to items common in Scottish culture at the time (including haggis, a mountain daisy, a mouse, and a louse).

Tonight is Burns Night in Scotland, which celebrates the poet and his legacy. Typical celebrations include a Burns Supper which includes, among other things, a feast of haggis, tatties (potatoes) and neeps (rutabaga); bagpiping; and the Toast to The Lassies (for their work in preparing the supper).

While haggis might not be on your menu tonight, at least you can enjoy the poetry of Robert Burns and his Address to Haggis.

Scottish gift stores sold these cute little Hairy Haggis, I had to work hard to not bring one home.

Fair is your honest happy face
Great chieftain of the pudding race
Above them all you take your place
Stomach, tripe or guts
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm

The groaning platter there you fill
Your buttocks like a distant hill
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads

His knife having seen hard labour wipes
And cuts you up with great skill
Digging into your gushing insides bright
Like any ditch
And then oh what a glorious sight
Warm steaming, rich

Then spoon for spoon
They stretch and strive
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums
Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles

Is there that over his French Ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner

Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a withered rush (reed)
His spindle-shank a good whiplash
His clenched fist.the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit

But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a blade
He’ll make it whistle
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off
Like the tops of thistles

You powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their meals
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a haggis!